


Here's To Us

by The_Last_Mockingbird9



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Last_Mockingbird9/pseuds/The_Last_Mockingbird9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His long, delicate fingers ghost over her spine, barely brushing the soft velvet of her dress, but she can feel him all the same. It’s a possessive touch, as if he’s trying to remind her who she really belongs to.</p>
<p>
  <i>You may be the Dragon King’s wife now, the Queen in the South, but don’t forget who made you, sweetling.</i>
</p>
<p>She doesn’t forget. She never forgets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's To Us

_Start with a subtle touch, so subtle it could be accidental, to the inside of the wrist, or the forearm, or the shoulder… Later, perhaps, the thigh, but take care not to appear too wanton._

The words, _his_ words, echo in her mind, over and over again, as she delicately drags her fingernails over the exposed skin of his wrist. His breath hitches, and his gray-green eyes darken for a moment. But it’s just a moment. Lords and ladies from across the Southron Kingdom, all here to simper and bow to their new Queen, surround them, and Lord Baelish knows better than to let his mask slip in front of these parasites. They have worked so hard to claim this crown that it would hardly be wise to jeopardize it now with damning rumors that Queen Sansa Targaryen is fucking the Hand of the King.

The elaborate silver crown adorned with onyx stones and glistening rubies the color of freshly spilled blood sitting atop her head makes Sansa’s neck ache. She finds herself envying Jon’s simple, bronze crown but such subtlety would be lost on the South. Despite the weight, she wears it with grace, always keeping her back straight and her head held high. She cannot deny he taught her well when she notices her new subjects staring at her with barely concealed worship.

“They look at you as if you are the Maiden made flesh,” Petyr whispers in her ear. She can’t see his face, but she can hear the smirk on his lips. His long, delicate fingers ghost over her spine, barely brushing the soft velvet of her dress, but she can feel him all the same. It’s a possessive touch, as if he’s trying to remind her who she really belongs to.

_You may be the Dragon King’s wife now, the Queen in the South, but don’t forget who made you, sweetling._

She doesn’t forget. She never forgets.

“Well, I’m hardly a maiden.”

He knows that, of course, he is the one who claimed her maidenhead. She suspects it makes him thinks he owns her in some way, but she knows better. Other men made her bleed long before he did.

“I have need of you after the celebration, Lord Baelish.” She doesn’t take the care to lower her voice, for Petyr has the right of it; when they look at her they see the Maiden, and they will assume she only means to speak with him about matters of the realm while her husband burns and sweats and shakes with a fever in a distant part of the castle.

“And I you, Your Grace.”

_Your Grace_. It has been six turns of the moon since the title was bestowed upon her and yet it still sounds foreign and wrong. Once, when she was a naïve girl, she had wanted to be a queen. Now, as an older woman, broken and perilously sewn back together again by her own hands, she wants nothing more than to throw her crown back at these Southron fools and retreat North to Winterfell. She tries not to linger long on that dream. If taking the Targaryen name and wearing this hideous crown keeps her brothers safe in the North, she’ll play her part.

The celebration leaves her exhausted and irritated, and she can hardly move her neck. She all but chucks the godsforsaken crown on to its red satin pillow and collapses into her chair. “They’re each more insufferable than the next. Did you hear them asking about Aegon’s health with _hunger_ in their eyes? It’s as if they hope he succumbs to the fever. You’d think they would have gorged themselves on kings by now. And Lord Tyrell is the worst of them all. That stinking fat flower means to worm his way into the Small Council even if it kills him. It seems he’s entirely forgotten how his family abandoned me to the lions.”

“Most like Lord Tyrell knew nothing of the marriage plot, and Lady Olenna is long dead. You must remember a great many abandoned you to the lions, sweetling. It would not be wise to punish them all.”

_Like you, Petyr?_ It hadn’t taken her very long to surmise he was the one who informed Tywin Lannister of the Tyrell plot to spirit her out of King’s Landing. If not for him, she would never have been married to the Imp and forced to wear the Lannister name as her own. If not for him, maybe she would not have had to eliminate Tyrion Lannister from the game, a decision that still haunted her. If not for him, maybe she could have been happy, maybe she could have ignored the need for vengeance burning in her gut every second of every day.

“You promised me all of their heads on spikes once,” she says softly. The room is dark, and all she can see of him is a dark silhouette in front of the fireplace. “Do you remember whispering that in my ear, Petyr?” In truth, she had never peaked so hard in her life than she had that night. It all started out as a game, a way to get what she needed from him, but over time she had come to appreciate Petyr’s long, deft fingers and the practiced, almost reverent way he touched her. But it was his violent whispers she liked best, whispers that would have horrified her as a girl. Perhaps it was those whispers that had convinced her to keep him around this long.

“Oh, I remember. There was such fire in your eyes that night.”

_And now there is only ice._ “I want that fire back, Petyr. I am a Targaryen now. It only seems appropriate.”

“You need not remain a Targaryen for long, love.”

_Only until your first son is born_ , she finishes for him. _Only until we can eliminate yet another one of your husbands and claim this kingdom for ourselves._ It is a fine enough plan, and one she knows they could accomplish with relative ease. They had plenty of practice with her first two husbands and the people love her so much that she almost thinks she could convince them to accept Petyr Baelish, an upjumped lordling from the smallest Finger in the Vale, a Lord of nothing but rocks and sheep, as their King Regent.

“What have you done to Aegon?”

Her question is met with a laugh, soft and mocking in nature. “He has fallen ill, Your Grace. I pray he recovers swiftly.” He turns away from the fire and stops in front of her. It is too dark in the room to see the desire in his eyes, but she can sense it, could feel it building up inside of him all evening until it seemed he could hardly resist staring at her in a way no Hand should ever stare at his Queen.

She feels nothing when he kneels before her and presses his lips into the palm of her hand. Petyr’s kisses have always tasted the same, like mint and Arbor gold and, just faintly, of blood. Sansa is never sure whether or not she only imagines the last part.

“Aegon gave me Cersei’s head as a wedding present. Do you remember?”

He practically growls at that and nips the thin, ivory flesh of her wrist. “It wouldn’t have been possible if not for me,” he says against her skin. He continues up her arm, alternating between gentle kisses and sharp bites. “And you somehow forget _I_ am the one who killed your beloved Joffrey.”

_Not quickly enough_ , she thinks bitterly. He’s at her neck when she finally asks the question that has been on her lips since Aegon fell ill a week ago. “How do you know I’m pregnant? I’m not quite showing yet, at least not enough to be noticeable.”

He stops, his lips hovering just over her right ear, and she can smell the mint and the Arbor gold and the blood. “I notice everything about you, every little change, every little quirk. You’re glowing, sweetling,” he answers, pressing a kiss to the shell of her ear “And your maids have loose tongues. You really ought to rectify that.” He pushes himself up by the arms of her chair and leans against the table behind him. “This was always the plan, my love. Don’t tell me you are regretting it now. You can’t seriously care for that foolish boy.”

“No,” she lies, and it sounds perfectly natural. It seems she can lie as easily as she can breathe these days. She supposes she should thank him for that as well, but she doesn’t much feel like thanking him. “I would have appreciated being informed though.” As she walks past him, she makes sure her hand brushes ever so slightly over the front of his breeches.

“It was a time for action, not talk.”

“How long does he have?”

“It will take four or so more doses to actually to end it, I think,” Petyr says, and the pride in his voice makes her want to vomit. “I thought it best we drag it out until your beautiful, violet-eyed Targaryen babe is born. Don’t you agree?”

She grasps the golden goblets Petyr had presented her and Aegon with on their wedding day and fills them both nearly to the brim with Arbor gold, Petyr’s favorite. If he notices the slight tremor in her hand, he doesn’t mention it. “A toast is in order, I think. I will soon be a free woman again.”

He takes his goblet, but pushes it toward her when she takes up her own. “A lovers' toast,” he says, and his smile fades into a smirk and then to a hard line. She had seen this coming; he’s never fully trusted her, so she only nods and lifts her goblet to his lips instead of her own. “I love you, Petyr,” she says, and she wonders if it is really a lie.

“To the Queen of the Southron Kingdom, and my Queen of Love and Beauty,” he answers, and after a pause, “And her future King.”

“To us,” she agrees, as their arms cross. When his goblet reaches her, she allows some of its contents to pass her lips but doesn’t swallow. Instead, she watches him carefully and feels a stab of regret when she sees the bulge in his throat roll up and then down again. When she spits on the floor, his eyes widen. He knows. He knows, and there is nothing he can do.

Moments later, she’s screaming for Petyr to wake up, she’s screaming about assassination attempts and vicious murderers, and half the castle is running to her aid, trying to soothe their frightened Queen. Every word that passes from her lips is a lie, but the tears—the tears streaming down her cheeks—those are real, and she hates herself for that.


End file.
